Loraine was still gasping.
“Bill—I think he’s dead—he’s in the car still—but he doesn’t move or speak. I’m sure he’s dead.”
Jimmy muttered an oath and sprang for the stairs, Bundle behind him, her heart pounding unevenly and an awful feeling of desolation spreading over her.
Bill—dead? Oh, no! Oh, no! Not that. Please God—not that.
Together she and Jimmy reached the car, Loraine behind them.
Jimmy peered under the hood. Bill was sitting as he had left him, leaning back. But his eyes were closed and Jimmy’s pull at his arm brought no response.
“I can’t understand it,” muttered Jimmy. “But he’s not dead. Cheer up, Bundle. Look here, we’ve got to get him into the house. Let’s pray to goodness no policeman comes along. If anybody says anything, he’s our sick friend we’re helping into the house.”
Between the three of them they got Bill into the house without much difficulty, and without attracting much attention, save for an unshaven gentleman, who said sympathetically:
“Genneman’s ’ad a couple, I shee,” and nodded his head sapiently.
“Into the little back room downstairs,” said Jimmy. “There’s a sofa there.”
They got him safely on to the sofa and Bundle knelt down beside him and took his limp wrist in her hand.
“His pulse is beating,” she said. “What is the matter with him?”